


Regulate

by SinNotAlone



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Dom/sub, Humiliation, M/M, Uniform Kink, corner time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-03
Updated: 2016-07-03
Packaged: 2018-07-19 22:02:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7379095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SinNotAlone/pseuds/SinNotAlone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>General Hux creates an extensive set of First Order uniform regulations for Kylo Ren to follow. Kylo is rather lacking in his execution, and Hux helps him learn from his mistakes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Regulate

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write a fun romp with uniform kink. It ended up kind of bizarre and maybe a little depressing?
> 
> I read a couple hundred pages of [marine corps regulations](http://kegareta.tumblr.com/post/145943367006/accidentally-fell-into-the-marine-corps-dress) to get in the mood for this, and I highly recommend you do the same.

The young cadets move stiffly in their starched jackets, crinkling with newness as they march three abreast down the corridor. No rank insignia yet mars their uniform greyness, and from behind each body is indistinguishable from the next. Their imperfect formation lists to the right, drifting until the cadet in front grazes his knuckles against the wall, the result of exuberant arm swinging. He recoils, sending the group surging in the opposite direction, and the extra half-shuffle left ripples through to the rear. Hux watches as the dim corridor swallows the receding forms, reminiscing.

He remembers being one of them, drilling his formations until he never even considered standing anything but precisely 18 inches from the body next to his. They’d marched for endless days with tough leather biting into soft young heels. He’d lanced his blisters, padded his shoes with cotton wool, but still managed to soak through the bandages. That first shower, when the hot water hit his feet, was a brilliant thing he will never forget. Bright and searing quick pain stilled his breath. When he got back to his bunk that night, he’d peeled back the loose skin clinging to his ankles, and it had come away like strips of moist paper. A slathering of bacta allowed him some sleep, but he knew he would need to let himself harden.

The following morning he’d still risen early to polish the black boots, alternately buffing and kneeling back to assess his progress. When he was finished they gleamed, and he glowed with satisfaction. Section 9-D of the 276 page handbook outlining dress regulations mandated that footwear was to be polished daily and under no circumstances would scuffs be overlooked at morning inspection. A cadet’s appearance was a key point of pride and any slovenliness reflected poorly on the entire unit.

When his class had received the handbook, Hux had taken to heart the threat of being quizzed at any moment on the overwhelming number regulations. He knew precisely how many inches his belt was allowed overlap before he needed to go down a size.

Getting used to the physical realities of life in uniform took slightly longer. For the first month he’d hobbled when no one was looking, swollen feet stuffed into unforgiving shoes. By the time the leather had finally conformed to his feet, the heels had started to detach, necessitating a stiff new pair.

Protective calluses formed like a carapace to guard his once fragile body. The change had been so gradual that it was only when he donned off-regulation clothing for the first time in months that he’d become aware of how naked his neck felt without the high collar protecting it, how vulnerable his ankles were outside of the triple layer of socks, trousers, boots.  

Hux is fastidious in his effort to cultivate an appearance of restrained power. Although his hair is now longer than what’s allowed cadets, it’s subdued in a way that not a single strand dares escape. He still rises early to ensure that his boots and buckle shine to his own exacting standards, no hint of a smudge. This rhythm, this discipline, it grounds Hux, allows him to catch a breath amidst a whirlwind of uncertainly.

It’s a form of self-discipline he’s eager to instill in Kylo Ren.

Kylo Ren, content to lope about in an amalgamation of rags. Kylo Ren, only ever tidy once Hux has stripped him bare.

He’s been toying with it, privately indulging in the fantasy since the beginning of their entanglement. It’s a shame that Kylo hides himself behind mask and cowl, a trim uniform would flatter him so much better. He’s likely never worn a uniform, never experienced much regulation of his appearance at all, and certainly never submitted to a daily inspection. Hux looks forward to changing that.

He tries to push the image of a uniformed Kylo out of his head, focus on the pressing threats to the First Order’s supply chain, but the fresh cadets, bumbling along with juvenile unease, have set him off. If he doesn’t act soon, the distraction may impair his efficiency to a noticeable degree.

He’s has been drafting a list, just for Kylo. In his scant spare time, he’s scrawled the dozens of ideas that inhabit his mind all day long. It’s nearly complete. He’s tried practically every permutation of the First Order’s uniform on the little model Kylo that occupies his thoughts. After intense deliberation, he decided that the junior petty officer’s humble uniform will make the best starting point. He mentally reviews, reconsiders, and revises each guideline until he’s narrowed his list to twenty key points. By the time he makes it back to his quarters, he’s ready to compose the final draft.

In a tidy stack, hidden beneath his datapad, lies his work in progress. Hux hunches over his desk, picks up the pad, and it flickers on. The handbook glows in warm green text, and the pages blur together as he makes one last check to ensure he hasn’t overlooked anything. He has only one chance to make this perfect, to make Kylo perfect. It wouldn’t do for the body enforcing the regulations to waver on points that should be held firm. He must set a proper example.

With painstaking neatness, Hux inscribes each rule in bold letters. He doesn’t let the pen linger on the paper between strokes, though Kylo likely wouldn’t notice a blot or two. When he punctuates the final point, he stills his breath, then sits back, lets the sheet dry, checking the height of each ascender. Satisfied, he folds the paper into equal thirds.

He’s considered the optimal delivery method, knows that he won’t trust any intermediaries between his hand and Kylo’s. Still, he slides the paper into a discreet white envelope and seals it. The envelope fits neatly inside the breast pocket of his great coat, ready to be transferred to Kylo at the right time.

Hux wants Kylo to burn with eagerness, frantic to tear open the flimsy envelope, so he makes the exchange at the bridge of the ship, just prior to a tactical discussion with Phasma. Kylo crumples the crisp paper and shoves it into some sort of gully deep within the folds of his garb. Hux notices Kylo’s hand creep toward the hiding place as Phasma drones on. By the end of the talk, the lump of his fist is fidgeting under layers of padding and fabric.

“You have one day to consider the offer,” Hux informs Kylo, as they go their separate ways, Hux back to the helm, Kylo back to arcane lurking.

He’s already gone to the trouble of gathering the necessary items, disappearing them from storage cabinets and surplus bins. They’re hiding in his foot locker, boxed and ready to be ceded to Kylo. He doesn’t know what he’ll do with them if Kylo declines, though Hux believes that unlikely. Kylo’s not intent on letting down any paternal figures besides his biological father.

When Hux receives Kylo’s assent, it is less than eager. Kylo’s shoulders are tight, his tone is flat, and he prefaces the ultimate agreement with, “I guess, I could, if you want.”

That doesn’t matter. Hux appreciates some reluctance, as long as it ultimately ends in obedience.

Prior to delivering Kylo the goods, Hux turns out the contents he’s been hoarding. He sits next to the mound of filched First Order property and inspects each piece before arranging it neatly inside the nondescript crate. The black boots lay at the bottom, followed by the jacket and trousers, then the undergarments and accessories. A shiver of delight runs up Hux’s spine as he folds the utilitarian grey briefs, clips the sock suspenders to one another.

He leaves the crate for Kylo along with another note—a time, a place, and an expectation listed.

Hux denies himself the instant gratification of setting the date too soon. Kylo needs time to prepare, and Hux is loath to appear impatient. He allows for a week of anticipation, of hunger mixed with a hint of trepidation. Hux trusts Kylo will be waiting in his quarters at the assigned time, but he’s less sure of Kylo’s ability to follow his, admittedly rather detailed, instructions.

Hux counts in days, then hours, then minutes, and finally he stands outside his own quarters, wringing his hands. The view that meets him upon entry does not immediately disappoint his expectations. Kylo’s covered in the stiff weave of the First Order grey up to the hollow of his throat. He stands erect, shoulders thrown back just too far, forming a mimicry of parade rest. At least he managed to fit into all the pieces. Hux thought the uniform he chose would be roomy enough, but it binds across Kylo’s broad chest, fabric pulled tight and rippled. If Kylo were a real officer in the First Order, he’d need to have his jacket tailored to flatter the narrow taper of his waist while still allowing for enough breadth across the chest.

Hux briefly meets Kylo’s gaze but says nothing. Instead he circles him, assessing. His eyes sweep up and down as he notes each imperfection. The uniform is rumpled, and Hux runs his hand down the inseam of Kylo’s trousers, attempting to smooth the fabric. Kylo apparently did not make the effort to relax the wrinkles before donning it. Hux toes at the hem of one pant leg, inches it up Kylo’s ankle. He lets out a huff of disappointment when his inspection reveals a fallen suspender attached to a drooping sock.

Hux continues his inspection on a closer scale, his expression intently focused. He grasps Kylo’s hand, wrenches it aloft, a little forgetful that it is attached to a body. As he runs his thumb over the blunt nails, he shifts his jaw, weighing the fact that they are clean with the knowledge that they've been bitten down to the quick instead of properly filed. He lets go of the hand and it drops, lifeless, to flop against Kylo's thigh. Kylo is boneless as he allows himself to be prodded. Hux imagines that with enough pressure he mind be able to mold Kylo’s limp body into something worthwhile.

Hux steps round to face Kylo’s back. He reaches to toy with one of the tendrils escaping the sloppy topknot. Kylo’s hair is slightly too short to stay neatly restrained, and stray hairs curl against his nape. He needs to adapt, find a suitable way to weave in the loose ends. Hux takes hold of the tie binding Kylo’s hair and gives a slight tug. It slips, and more dark locks tumble over his ears.

Having seen enough to make a final judgment, Hux paces forward, turns to face Kylo. He rehearses his critique and clears his throat, making Kylo wait, allowing a painful tension to build. When he begins, his tone is that of a wearied lecturer. It’s only half affectation.

“I will acknowledge that this is your first try, but even compared to cadets a decade your junior you look a sloppy mess.”

Kylo drops his head in light of this admonishment. Hux continues, “This time, and this time only, I’ll help you set things right. You will strip. You will remove each garment with proper care, and you will set it at my feet.”

A mottled blush creeps up Kylo’s neck to cover his cheeks. Kylo’s skin doesn’t color easily, and the challenge makes Hux’s satisfaction that much sweeter when he gets to witness the pink tinge grow and darken.

Kylo stands stock still. The silence looms.

“What are you waiting for? Now Kylo.”

Hux’s impatient goading rouses Kylo to action. He reaches up with unsure hands to unfasten his collar, but the jacket presents a struggle. The arms bind and Kylo has to yank it down with hands awkwardly contorted behind his back. After he escapes, he shakes the jacket out, folds it in half, and stoops to place it on the square of floor adjacent Hux’s polished boots. Hux responds with a curt nod. Kylo can’t possibly be so incompetent as to fumble this simple task.

After the jacket comes the belt, the boots, the trousers, and a mound of grey accretes at Hux’s feet. Kylo’s left in the thin undergarments the First Order supplies. They’re designed to be functional, in no way titillating, and they hug and sag in all the wrong places. The boyish impression they create incites an unintended heat in Hux’s belly.

Hux thinks of a teenage Kylo that likely never existed, after his growth spurt but before he filled out. He imagines long femurs, without much bulk, extending from the shot legs of those tight grey pants. In a way he’s taken Kylo back, to before he grew cocky and sure, to that self-conscious stage. If Kylo had attended the academy, he would have left this awkward boy behind long ago. Hux is glad he didn't, that he gets to be the one to break that boy.

In a predictably teenaged fashion, the line of Kylo’s half-hard cock is visible under the meager underpants.

Kylo bends at the waist and works the clasps of the suspenders. They’ve done such a poor job that one lies around an ankle, the other drooping at mid-calf. Kylo’s fingers have become clumsy under Hux's close observation, and he fumbles with the tiny metal loops. He manages to free the socks without ripping the flimsy fabric, and pairs them, piles them with the rest of his clothes. The cursed suspenders follow shortly.

Hux drinks in the two quick stretches of well-muscled flesh, and the undergarments complete the pile. Kylo’s bared completely, and though he has no reason to feel ashamed of his body, he still shifts in an attempt to regain a fragment of modesty. Hux steps closer and catches Kylo's wandering hand before it can find its destination. He brings it behind his back, then joins it with the other. A firm squeeze communicates his expectation that Kylo hold the position until otherwise directed.  

Hux indulges for a moment, running his hands over warm skin, tracing the old scars scattered across Kylo’s trunk. Kylo shivers as Hux skates his hand to the nape of his neck. The slender fingers entwine with the dark, unruly stands, and with one tug at the binding cord, Kylo’s hair falls free.

Hux can’t resist laying on an additional critique. “In no way does this qualify as secure. You’ll either take the time to do this properly, or you’ll be getting a regulation cut.”

Kylo makes no audible response, just squeezes his eyes shut, sets his jaw. That jaw clenches tighter as Hux runs his finger along it. The finger snakes up to trace sealed lips, rubbing against their soft fullness. The tender touch lasts but a moment before two of Hux’s fingers wrench Kylo’s lips back, forcefully invading his mouth. Hux digs them into the soft palate, feels the rush of saliva coating them. But Kylo is well behaved; he doesn’t bite down. Instead his tongue tentatively flickers against the insistent fingers.

Hux retracts his fingers and wipes them on Kylo’s cheek. Then he turns, like he’s done nothing out of the ordinary, and walks away. His datapad is still lying on his desk, and he retrieves it, fishing the pair of trousers out of the pile of clothing along the way. He turns the datapad on, makes sure its set to the correct page, and hands it to Kylo.

The pair of trousers hang from Hux’s hand. His arm is stretched perpendicular to his body, as if he were holding something much more offensive than rumpled fabric.

“Does this look like a proper crease to you?”

He steps forward, holds the trousers to Kylo’s face. In the bright overhead light, the meandering crease is obvious.

“No,” Kylo admits.

“Clearly, you did not read my instructions. While I repair this mess you're going to study them. Think about how you can improve. And when I’m finished, you’ll provide specific instances where you can do better next time.” Hux’s voice is a calm as he delivers the criticism. He prefers Kylo to shrink from weight of his words rather than the volume of his voice.

Kylo raises the datapad, makes to read, but Hux interrupts him, snapping his fingers and pointing to the corner. Kylo shifts his weight, hesitating once more. His eyes are still lowered; he’s not shameless enough to plead outright.

“Kylo,” Hux intones. The charm of Kylo's reluctance is veering uncomfortably close to outright disobedience.

Kylo turns, and his feet drag as he shuffles forward, the carpet’s abrasion audible in the otherwise still room. As if acting of their own accord, his calves contract and lengthen, enabling an uneven ambulation. It isn’t until his nose nearly brushes the wall that he abruptly stops.

“Kneel.” Hux punctuates the command with a familiar gesture, though it’s invisible to Kylo.

Kylo allows his legs to collapse in a poorly controlled fall, almost dropping the datapad in the process. He catches himself with his left palm, and the impact roils through to the shoulder. Sometimes, when Hux is feeling charitable, Kylo’s allowed a blanket to cushion his knees. But that’s when Kylo’s good, when he goes down of his own accord.

Right now, Hux wants him uncomfortable. Wants the rough industrial carpeting to bite into the thin skin stretched over his knees.

“Pitiful behavior isn’t going to get you anywhere,” Hux reminds Kylo. Kylo should know by now that scorn is the closest approximation to pity Hux is capable of experiencing.   

Hux continues, “I’m willing to help you learn, but I will not repeat a lesson twice.”

Kylo’s hunched back straightens in response. His thighs spread slightly to steady his weight, and it forces his back into a pleasing arch.

While Kylo is engrossed in reviewing the guidelines ad infinitum, Hux sets things in order. He steams and presses, brushes and buffs, using the collection of specialized grooming tools he’s accumulated over the past decade. With his practiced efficiency, it’s not long before the jacket and trousers hang pristine on the valet stand. Though the boots had not suffered the same crumpled fate as the rest of the uniform, he still polishes them to a high shine before considering his task complete.

Satisfied with his work, Hux returns his attention to Kylo, who has managed to hold his position with limited fidgeting. He admires the wide shoulders, hunched slightly over the datapad. Kylo is still reading, scrolling slowly down, then quickly back up to the top of the page, over and over. Perhaps Hux will be able to make him into an adequate cadet after all.

Hux notifies Kylo, “You may face me.”

Kylo reaches to push himself up, but Hux cuts him off. “I didn't say you could stand.”

So Kylo remains on his knees and scuttles around to face Hux. Hux allows the hint of a smirk to spread across his face as he entreats, “Come closer.”

And Kylo stretches forward, creeps across the room. His hair falls in his face, and he shakes it back, still waiting on hand and knee once he nears Hux. Hux fists the bulk of Kylo’s hair, uses it as a tether to pull him up to his knees, bend his head back so he has no choice but to meet Hux’s eyes.

“What have you learned?” Hux’s eyes narrow. His expectations are still rather low.

“My suspenders will be fasted above the swell of my calves. My trousers will bear a single crease from two inches above the crotch to the hem. My hair will be secured so as to allow moderate movement without obscuring my vision.”

“Very good Kylo.” A rare flicker of true pleasure warms the compliment.

Still gripping his hair, he draws Kylo to standing, relinquishing his hold once Kylo reaches his full height. Kylo’s joints remain fluid, and Hux handles him with ease.  

Hux starts to dress Kylo, and he’s sure that this time, he’ll be pleased by the outcome. He loops the suspender around Kylo’s calf, adjusts it so it’s rather too tight. The elasticized band cuts into Kylo’s leg, whitening the surrounding skin. There's no way Hux will allow for drooping socks ever gain.

Hux builds a constellation of little discomforts for Kylo to weather. He aims to heighten the sensation that Kylo’s body is no longer under his own control. Kylo plays the perfect mannequin, lifting his arms and legs at the right times, otherwise still. Hux slips the thin undergarments on with hands that are adroit but not gentle. He maneuvers Kylo’s erection down and the tight fabric holds it firm. Kylo shifts his hips but doesn’t dare adjust himself.

The trousers slip easily over narrow hips, clinging slightly to thick thighs, though they hang so much better now they’re properly pressed. The jacket, however, is a struggle to close, and Kylo’s breathing shallows once he is fastened in. Hux will need to acquire a properly tailored one before he is satisfied, though he won’t allow too much additional breathing room.

As Kylo steps into his boots, Hux steps to his chair, to sit and admire Kylo from a distance.

“Very presentable,” Hux commends his own work.

“I might even be willing to take you out in public,” he adds, a threat wrapped in praise.

 “What do you say Kylo?”

“Thank you.”

“For?”

“For teaching me to be presentable.”

“You’re welcome Kylo,” Hux condescends as he crooks his finger. His legs are spread wide, in an invitation for Kylo to express his gratitude on a more genuine level.

Kylo returns to his knees, this time between Hux’s legs, nuzzling against the warm fabric covering Hux’s erection. His hair curtains his face, yet again a hindrance. Hux tugs the strands taught, neatly interweaving right then left, before he secures the binding. With Kylo finally arranged just as he envisioned, Hux unbuttons his pants, frees his erection.

Hux studies Kylo, noting how his brown eyes are modestly lowered, no challenge left in them. He feels that this position is the most appropriate for Kylo. Why he allows him to stand is his presence, he doesn’t know, not when kneeling suits Kylo so well. It’s something else to work on in the future, as he moves Kylo toward a potentially unattainable perfection. Hux contemplates his plan while Kylo’s wet mouth engulfs his length.

**Author's Note:**

> I intentionally didn’t use star-wars-verse terms for mundane objects because I find them inverse boner inducing. I'm sorry, I just can't.
> 
> More sartorial micromanagement on [Tumblr](http://sinnotalone.tumblr.com).


End file.
